Now where was I?

The discerning reader, of which WordPress tells me I have exactly 0 (and just as many who are undiscerning), will note that this blog was on hiatus for nearly two years. Said hypothetical reader will also note that most of the previous entries dealt with my hopeful foray into a miraculous form of psychotherapy. I discontinued treatment after seven sessions, convinced that it had been a big help despite the therapist’s lack of efficacy. I suspect that what I experienced was mostly a placebo effect (combined with a pocketbook effect: the out-of-pocket costs for an out-of-network provider were unsustainable). In any case I have been therapy-free ever since.

Which is not to say that I’ve been neurosis-free, or that I haven’t spent hours trying to find the perfect therapist, or that I haven’t come this close to doing away with myself. But I haven’t done much of the kind of self-obsessed writing that characterized the previous entries (or the previous 10 years of blogging). In my defense, I think I started the WordPress blog as a way to do the daily writing that my therapist prescribed, and much of that writing was hidden from public view. I’ve now made all the entries viewable (except the truly tedious ones in which I described my dreams). Going forward, I will try to be less whiny.

You’re welcome.

Oh, and while I have managed to avoid therapy for more than two years, I did see a psychiatrist last month, hoping to be deemed depressed enough to undergo transcranial magnetic stimulation. After talking with me for 50 minutes, the shrinklet (she can’t be older than 30) told me that I not depressed enough for rTMS, because the main thing I have is borderline personality disorder. She referred me to a local provider of BPD treatment, who, after a 20-minute chat, decided that I more likely have an autism spectrum disorder (as suggested by previous therapist). It turns out that it’s quite common for autistic women to be misdiagnosed, and apparently the percentage of men diagnosed with autism is the same as the percentage of women diagnosed with BPD.

Of course, life is too damn short for me to go back and find all the research supporting the claims I made in the previous sentence. But here’s an article that describes someone whose life experiences and many diagnoses I can definitely relate to (if not empathize with).

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